


Duty Free

by achray



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 20:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13302159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: Victor and Yuuri get distracted in an airport.





	Duty Free

Airports were the worst thing, Yuuri thought mournfully, blinking at the shuffling line of people following the transfer signs to a bus stop with no buses anywhere in sight. Airports were _particularly_ worst when you had to transfer terminals with five hundred other anxious people, and the flight in had been late, and all the corridors were several miles long, and when you didn’t like to fly anyway and now you had to be stressed about a second, and this time really long, flight to Russia, and –

_And_ when you were travelling with Victor Nikiforov. Yuuri got on planes and prayed they wouldn’t fall out of the sky. He stared out of the window and watched the world recede and every single time he longed to be back on solid ground. Take-offs and landings made his stomach turn; airplane food disagreed with him; the lights were too bright in the cabins; the person beside him would turn out to want to tell him their life story….

Whereas when Victor got on a plane, a glass of champagne, an actual real glass, not even a plastic one, would instantly materialize from a starstruck steward, Victor would drink it in three sips, sigh contentedly, arrange a blanket over himself and pass out for the duration. Usually, now, on top of Yuuri, who would then be left awake while everyone passing down the aisle stared at Victor, glanced at Yuuri, and then frowned in confusion.

Everything about flying and airports and terminals and transfers was _terrible_.

“Yuuri!” said Victor, poking him in the arm. “Terminal 5! My favourite! How much time do we have?”

“Two hours ten minutes,” said Yuuri.

He checked his watch for the twentieth time since adjusting it to British time. The sign still said that the next bus would be five minutes, and there were at least thirty people ahead of them. One of his only top ten anxiety dreams not to involve skating was about missing an international flight, usually involving endless running through faceless airports and feeling sick. Though since the only international flights he took, or used to take, were to skating competitions, possibly this was a skating anxiety dream too.

“Hmm,” said Victor. Yuuri looked at him. Admittedly they had only flown over from Berlin, but Yuuri still felt rumpled, slightly sweaty and tired, while Victor looked as though he had walked out of their hotel lobby that morning and magically stepped straight into Heathrow.

“No shopping,” Yuuri said.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” said Victor, smiling at him. “Of course we will shop. I will buy you – a shirt. A very English shirt. Maybe two.”

“I have shirts!”

Victor’s smile widened, to the one Yuuri knew was meant to convey fond exasperation. He patted Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Yes,” he said. “But many of them are terrible.” He frowned. “Only two hours? I thought we would have lunch, too.”

“We won’t have time for _anything_ ,” said Yuuri. “Look –“ he gestured at the crowd – “we aren’t even on the bus yet.”

Victor made a tssking noise, and as if summoned, three buses drew up at the doors.

“Ha,” Victor said.

**

Of course, another thing was that when Yuuri was in airports by himself, no-one ever looked at him. It was lonely but easy. He could simply sit and watch his flight moving up the board.

When he was in airports with Victor, as the last few months had shown, _everyone_ looked at him. Victor walked through airport terminals as though they were catwalks, radiating celebrity, so that even in countries that had no legitimate interest in figure skating, people gazed at him, puzzled, clearly wondering if they knew him from somewhere.

And that was _before_ The Advert. After Berlin airport Yuuri thought he was mentally prepared, but when they got off the bus, through yet another set of security, and were funneled into duty free, he still couldn’t stop himself flinching.

The brand was new, a Russian vodka for the international market with a really stupid name, Black Ice, and the guy in charge had been young and floppy-haired and wearing ripped jeans. He waved his hands around a lot and talked to Victor in excitable Russian which Yuuri couldn’t follow, and Victor grinned and nodded and signed the contract, and then pushed one over to Yuuri to sign too, which he did.

And that was why he was now looking at a 10 foot high photograph of himself and his boyfriend. ‘Vodka With Edge’, said the logo, splashed across them. The photo had been taken at an empty ice rink, somewhere on the outskirts of St Petersburg. They were in versions of their best-known skating costumes, which the crew at the shoot had produced for them, Yuuri in black and Victor in white; they’d been carefully made up and styled and then the director had simply asked them to skate their routine, camera flashing all the while.

Yuuri generally disliked make-up, and stylists, and being critically stared at by a team of people. On the ice, however, the attempt to ignore an audience was normal. He remembered almost forgetting, in the exhilaration of skating their routine with Victor, matching his moves, that the photographer was there. And Victor had looked stunning: his eyes accentuated, his lips red; Yuuri recalled quite clearly the familiar feeling of sheer helpless worship that he had felt during the shoot, and the equally familiar feeling that he had to show Victor that he, Yuuri, had something to offer too.

Which explained how the photographer had caught them in a moment, a loose hold, poised on the ice, when Yuuri was gazing straight into Victor’s eyes, with what _every single person_ who saw the advert would surely recognize as determined adoration and lust, while Victor looked down at him, lips slightly curved, with an expression that suggested he was about to throw Yuuri to the ice and ravish him. Yuuri was fairly sure that this had not, in fact, happened three seconds after the photo had been taken, but even the most cursory glance at it would suggest otherwise.

Yuuri had managed to get Victor past the five reproductions of The Advert in Berlin without him noticing it, but that was hard to do here, given that it was the giant centerpiece of the alcohol section immediately in front of them, with a table loaded with vodka bottles and two staff smilingly ready to hand out samples.

Victor stopped dead, in the middle of the aisle. “Yuuri!” he said, far too loudly. “Look – it came out!” He waved at the picture.

Yuuri closed his eyes briefly, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. The sales assistants had noticed Victor – not surprisingly – and had identical rapacious expressions on their faces as they approached. Other people around them were stopping as well, looking from the advert to Victor and Yuuri and back, murmurs starting to swell.

“Victor….” said Yuuri weakly. “Our flight…should we really?”

Victor slung an arm over his shoulders. “Look at you,” he said. “You look _amazing._ They really knew their stuff.” He leaned a little closer in, lowering his voice. “And this – “ he gestured – “paid for my – _our_ – new apartment. I think we could drink a little vodka, no?”

“Excuse me,” said one of the assistants. “Are you possibly…?”

“Victor Nikiforov,” said Victor, straightening, giving her his devastating smile and shaking her hand. “And this is Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri attempted a poor smile. While Victor was instantly recognizable, the assistant was probably wondering how the crumpled mess in glasses before her had translated into the figure in the photo.

“This is such an honour!” she was saying. “I can’t believe it! We’re both such fans of yours.” She gestured at the other sales assistant, still holding a tray of small sample glasses of vodka.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” said Victor, with practiced ease. “We’re delighted that the campaign has come out – right, Yuuri?” He raised his voice slightly, looking around at the gradually assembling crowd. “I’m proud to support such excellent Russian vodka.”

Yuuri mumbled something. The sales assistants looked at though all their dreams had come true.

“Would you like to – I mean, perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we took a photo of you with your picture?” said one of them. She was very blonde and beautiful, and also taller than Yuuri, and now smiling at Victor in a disturbing way.

“Of course,” said Victor. “We have plenty of time. And please, let me assist.” He firmly took the tray out of the second assistant’s hands and turned to the people around them.

“The finest vodka from my native land!” he declaimed. “Free samples here!” He took one from the tray and smiled broadly. “How do you say it here – cheers!” He downed the vodka. There was some scattered applause, people were laughing, whispering, taking out their phones. Victor pushed the tray at Yuuri and began shaking hands, signing autographs. Yuuri held the tray out, feebly.

“Free samples,” he muttered. He could feel himself blushing.

“That’s you in that photo, isn’t it?” said a middle-aged woman in garish clothing. “You look so fabulous! Are you an actor?”

“Oh, Lisa,” said the woman beside her, nudging her and picking up two vodkas. “Don’t embarrass him, they’re skaters, aren’t they – they’re famous – ”

“Umm,” said Yuuri.

“You remember, they’re the ones who – “ said the woman, moving away with her friend and lowering her voice. Yuuri was glad he couldn’t hear the end of the sentence.

The tray emptied rapidly, and eventually the sales assistant resurfaced in the buzz of people around Yuuri and removed it. Victor was back beside him, solid and reassuring.

“Photo?” he said.

“Oh, of course!” said the second assistant. “If you could just stand here – “

Victor obligingly steered Yuuri just to the right of the advert, next to the small print giving their names.

“Do you want us to hold one of the bottles?” he said.

“No, that’s OK,” she said. “Just a quick snap of the two of you – it’s amazing you’re here, I can’t believe it!”

Yuuri looked down at the floor. This was going to be all over the internet, a picture of him looking scruffy and tired, not only next to Victor looking like his usual dazzling self, but next to a 10-ft photo of Victor looking like an actual god descended from the heavens.

“Yuuri,” said Victor. Yuuri looked up at him reluctantly. Victor caught his eyes and smiled at him. His expression was wicked. Yuuri knew that expression well by now, so he had time to brace himself before Victor put his arms around him and bent down to kiss him, on the lips, in front of half of Heathrow. He also had time to decide that with Victor in this mood, there was no point in modesty, and so he reached up to put his arms around Victor’s neck and kissed him back, hard, pressing against him, feeling Victor’s mouth opening under his and licking into it.

There was a wolf-whistle from the crowd, and more laughter and hoots. Yuuri pulled back. Victor’s eyes were wide on his. Yuuri raised an eyebrow and watched Victor’s lips curve. He pulled away, his hand finding one of Yuuri’s and squeezing it.

“I am Victor Nikiforov!” he said, to the entire duty free shop, with a slight courtly, bow. “And this is my boyfriend, Yuuri Katsuki. We’re proud to promote Black Ice vodka.” The crowd applauded again. Both sales assistants were filming on their phones. “And now, I’m afraid, we have a flight to catch. Thank you all so much.” He nodded at the assistants, smiled around at the hordes, and pulled Yuuri after him, heading purposely through the duty free, admirers trailing in his wake.

“Where are we going?” said Yuuri. He was still reeling from ‘boyfriend.’ Also Victor was still holding his hand.

Victor slowed down slightly, looking at him. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and then back out,” he said. “Ah, there it is!” He steered Yuuri through a door on the right, into one of the first-class lounges, pulling a boarding pass from his coat pocket and waving it at the woman at the desk, who nodded them through.

The lounge was nearly empty. Victor strode straight through it, veered left and pulled Yuuri through a door marked ‘Shower’, into a small bathroom. He locked the door behind them. Tinny muzak was coming through the sound system; the room was warm, tiled, and smelt of expensive hand soap. As Yuuri glanced around the music stopped and a woman’s voice announced that the flight to Barcelona was closing.

Yuuri blinked. Victor gave him his wicked smile again.

“You look so _hot_ in that photograph,” he said. “In the shoot – you remember what we did later that evening?”

Yuuri swallowed. He did remember, quite vividly. There had been small amounts of glitter in Victor’s make-up for the shoot, and the next day Yuuri had found traces of it on his thighs, his stomach. He hadn’t washed it off: some of it had clung to his skin for almost a week.

“Everyone can see how much I was wanting you, in that advert,” said Victor. “Good. I always want you, and I don’t care who knows it.”

“I don’t really look like that, though,” said Yuuri.

“Yes, you do,” said Victor. “I would know.” He started taking off his coat, dropping it casually to the floor, pulling his sweater over his head.

“What are you doing?!” said Yuuri. “Our flight – “

“Is not for over an hour,” said Victor. He emerged from his sweater, slightly flushed, hair tousled, and grinned at Yuuri. “Come here,” he said.

Yuuri hesitated for only a second, and then went.

It had been several days since he’d last had sex with Victor: their schedule had been punishing, and they’d fallen into bed exhausted every night. As always, when kissing him, Yuuri wondered how he’d possibly managed to last even a few hours without this, without the heat of Victor’s mouth, still always surprising, without the press of his body.

He was not the kind of person who had sex with a boyfriend in an airport bathroom, except that apparently, he was about to be. All those people out there, looking at Victor, and Victor was _his_ , Yuuri’s. Yuuri, suddenly determined, took control of the kiss, making Victor promises with his tongue. His glasses were in the way: he removed them with one hand, tossing them vaguely to land on Victor’s discarded clothing. He started unbuttoning Victor’s shirt, running one hand over his chest, pinching lightly at a nipple so that Victor gasped into his mouth.

Yuuri walked them backwards a step or two, Victor going with him willingly, until Victor was leaning against the tiled wall. Then he broke the kiss. Victor was breathing hard, disheveled, eyes bright.

“We could get in the shower,” he said.

“No time,” said Yuuri decisively. Besides, he knew what he wanted. He dropped to his knees and ran his hands over the front of Victor’s thighs, in his tight jeans. Victor looked down at him, mouth open.

“God,” he said. “Please.”

Yuuri smiled. He still felt uncertain at this, he still had to stop himself thinking about how much more experienced Victor was, how awkward and fumbling Yuuri felt himself by comparison, but not even he could doubt how much Victor enjoyed Yuuri’s mouth on him.

He opened Victor’s jeans with ease, hurrying. Victor was half-hard already, and when Yuuri closed his mouth around him he groaned and said one of his phrases in Russian that Yuuri was going to have to interpret, one of these days.

Yuuri loved doing this: Victor’s taste, his heat and weight, the way Yuuri’s tongue made him tremble and curse, coming undone. He liked to be able to draw this out, to make Victor wait, but now was more the time for fast, and hard. It didn’t take long, before Victor’s hand tightened on his hair, and he came, shuddering, into Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri swallowed and pulled off, gently, wiping his mouth with his hand. Victor slid down the wall to face him, looking wrecked, and kissed him, gently.

“That was – fuck, Yuuri.”

“No time for that either,” said Yuuri, surprising himself, and Victor grinned.

“When we get home…” he said. “But now, you – let me – “ He urged Yuuri to his feet and Yuuri stood, shakily, bracing himself on the wall as Victor undid his jeans. He was so hard, and watching Victor’s clever hands on him, the anticipation of his mouth – he bit his lip, painfully, to keep himself quiet, as Victor looked up at him and then took Yuuri’s cock in his mouth.

Victor was very good at this, and he always seemed to know exactly what to do to make Yuuri lose track of himself, of his surroundings; everything narrowing down to warmth and want and the nearly unbearable pleasure of thrusting into Victor’s mouth. Yuuri was so wound up already that it was brief: a few dizzying minutes before he screwed his eyes shut and felt himself toppling over the edge, Victor holding him through it.

He came back to himself, gasping for air, trembling. Victor pushed himself up and wrapped his arms around him, stroking his back, and they stood for a moment, holding each other.

“What time is it?” said Yuuri after a while, muffled into Victor’s chest.

“I have no idea,” said Victor. “Hey, if we miss the flight we could stay in a hotel – I know a great place, in Mayfair, you’ll _love_ it….”

Yuuri managed to summon himself together to look at his watch. The flight was leaving in thirty-five minutes.

“We can make it,” he said, “if we hurry.”

“Flight 251 to Moscow with British Airways now boarding Gate 32,” said the announcer, helpfully. “Last call for all passengers on flight 251 to Moscow.” She began saying it again, in Russian. Victor sighed.

“I guess our apartment is better equipped for what I have in mind,” he said, mock-thoughtfully. “For later.”

Yuuri raised both eyebrows, and started buttoning Victor’s shirt.

“ _And_ I won’t have time to shop,” Victor added. He reached to fasten Yuuri’s jeans, casually intimate. “You need a whole new outfit, now.”

“Whose fault is that?” said Yuuri.

“Entirely mine,” said Victor. “Though I blame you also, for being irresistible.” He smiled at Yuuri delightedly, and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Everyone will guess what we’ve been doing,” said Yuuri, slightly dismayed, looking at Victor’s reddened cheeks, his swollen lips. “We’re a mess.”

“Mmm,” said Victor. “I _love_ airports, don’t you?”

Yuuri took his hand. “I could be convinced,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy this fandom and pairing, but am intimidated about writing in it due to my general ignorance of anime, figure-skating, Japanese culture and Russian culture. So this is me dipping a toe in the water. Hope you liked it and feedback v. welcome!


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